Relentless (Fallon Sisters Trilogy: Book #1) (10 page)

Bren quickly locked the door and slid into the kitchen, prepared to make her exit through the back door. Grabbing the handle, she yanked and then cursed under her breath. She yanked harder, but the door didn't budge. The key turned in the front door, and it creaked open.
Shit.
Not good. She eyed the pantry—not wide enough. Cabinet under the sink—too many pipes. Broom closet. That would work. She opened the closet and pressed her body inside. At five six she wasn't tiny. The top shelf grazed her head, and she hunkered down. Shutting the door, she tried to control her breathing. She hated small spaces.

Footsteps followed. Bernie called out the rooms. "Four bedrooms, master bath, and hall bath are upstairs."

Perfect. Once they hit the second level she was outa here.

"You go on, Rafe. I'm going to finish the paperwork in the kitchen."

Bren grimaced. She was starting to sweat, and it wouldn't be long before she hyperventilated. Her barn coat was like a straitjacket, tight against her, making the cramped space even smaller with its thickness.

Bernie cleared his throat and flicked his pen. Judging by the sound, he was using the center island. he click of a pair of familiar boots hit the hardwood of the kitchen, and Bren pressed back against the closet.

"What you think of the upstairs?"

"It's adequate."

"Four bedrooms."

"It's just me."

"Then you'll have plenty of space."

Sweat ran down between Bren's shoulder blades.
Come on. Enough small talk.
A drawer shut. Then another. He opened the dishwasher. The suction of the refrigerator door signaled he was getting close.
What the hell? Does he kick tires, too?
Bren held her breath. She could sense him in front of the broom closet. The door pressed forward.
Crap.
His hand was on the handle.

"I just need your John Hancock right here," said Bernie.

The door popped out a fraction when he released it. hat was too close.

"Enjoy your new house, Rafe. Welcome to Maryland."

"Thanks."

"A little advice. Keep a safe distance from Bren Ryan. Ever since her husband died last January, she's been unpredictable."

"Unstable?"

"It's possible."

"Thanks for the advice."

Their voices floated away, their footsteps grew faint. Bren cracked the door, the air cool against her cheeks. he front door opened and shut, and she closed the broom closet door.

Come on, Langston.

The quiet unnerved her. His boots were distinct against the hardwood, yet there was nothing. Where did he go? he front porch? She couldn't stay here forever. Eventually she'd have to make her move.

The broom closet door swooshed open, the light blinding.

"You are a peculiar woman, Mrs. Ryan."

Bren popped up and hit her head on the top shelf. "Ouch." She closed her eyes against the pain.

Langston reached in and cradled her head and pulled her forward. "You make it a habit of hiding in broom closets?"

"How'd you know?"

"You're not very covert. It was hanging out of the door." He tugged on her barn coat. "Who's your jeweler?"

Bren couldn't help but smile at the heart-shaped pin with puzzle pieces glued on. "Finn."

"The blond with glasses."

"How do you—"

"I remember him from the sale barn. You have an older boy, too, a teenager."

"Aiden." That was a little disconcerting. He remembered a lot about her family.

Bren stepped away from him, putting the center island between them. "I should be going. Sorry about intruding. I was just..."

"You can come by anytime."

Bren's hands fidgeted on the center island. He'd bought her land, her house, and yet offered to still share it with her? She had no choice but to share the driveway. But she wouldn't step foot in this house again. "No. It's your house now. I was making sure I didn't leave anything behind."

He cocked his head and studied her. His dark brown brows knit together over a pair of emerald eyes. "You're the horse freak."

"Pardon?"

"Horses. The room with the painted horses." He motioned toward the ceiling.

"Guess that's why I have a horse farm."

"Right." He took a step closer. "I like the room."

Bren pulled her hands apart and stepped back, eyeing the entrance to the hallway. "Good. You ever have a daughter, she'd love it."

"Family's not something I'm looking for."

Bren bit down on her lower lip. He towered above her. The shape of his Stetson, since removed, still molded against his head and made the black locks curl up at the ends around his ears. His face chiseled and rough with a light black beard gave him a dangerous appearance. He took of his black suede jacket and laid it on the counter.

Bren's every nerve ending tingled, and that voice inside screamed for her to hotfoot it out of there. But there was something about him, a familiarity she couldn't quite place. "I should go." Bren motioned toward the entryway of the kitchen. "Enjoy the house, Mr. Langston."

He leaned in over the counter. "Mr. Langston's my father. My name is Rafe."

"Fine, Rafe."

He came around the counter. Leaning against the edge, he crossed his arms. "Can I call you Bren?"

Bren nodded. "Sure. We're neighbors now. We share a common driveway. You might want to think about purchasing a tractor with a bucket. It's still winter, and February in Washington County is heavy snowfall season."

"Don't see much snow in Texas."

"No?"

"Nope. Too warm."

Definitely too warm.
Bren inched back toward the cabinet behind her.

"I'm sorry about your husband."

"Thanks." Not at all what she expected him to say. Nor did she expect the way it made her feel. He seemed to genuinely care that it was upsetting to her. "I heard Bernie's crack. I'm not unpredictable. Bernie forgot to mention my husband was murdered."

"What's the sheriff doing about it?"

"Kevin? Not a damn thing. He believes Tom's death was an accident, just like everyone else in this narrow-minded town."

"How do you know it wasn't?"

The one-year anniversary of Tom's death had come and gone. She'd given up sharing her theory with anyone. She knew the truth. But for the first time in a long while someone actually wanted to talk to her about it.

"This is probably upsetting for you. It was insensitive for me to ask. I'm sorry."

"Are you kidding? I could talk about it until lack of breath. That's the problem. No one takes me seriously. Tom knew his way around a barn. He didn't wrap himself up in the pulley system and say a Hail Mary and jump out the hayloft."

"Hayloft?"

"It's complicated." Bren reached in her pocket and grabbed her hair tie and pulled her hair up into a loose bun. She pointed in the direction of the front door. "I could show you. It's the red barn as you come in. Right before you get to my house."

He remained quiet, the expression for a split second in his eyes hard, almost angry, and then it disappeared.

Jeez, Bren. You sound so needy.
Rafe Langston would have no interest in helping her sort out Tom's death.

This guy probably thought she was a total fruitcake. Self-consciously she brought her hand down, nervously scratched the back of her head, and let her hand waft down to her side. "You're not interested. It was silly, anyway. I just thought... you seemed..."

He pushed off from the counter. "How about I take you home? I didn't see your truck when I pulled up. It's getting dark."

He was just like everyone else. She fisted her hands. And here she'd thought he might be different.

"I'm perfectly capable..."

He stepped forward. His green eyes smiled at her while he reached back to grab his jacket. "Are there lights in this barn?"

B
ren had the prettiest ass Rafe had seen in a long time. He guessed running a farm kept her in shape. "Why are you stopping?" he asked, coming to a halt on the ladder up to the hayloft.

Bren looked down from above him, her dark red hair softly cascading from her bun.

There was no way he could say "no" to recreating Tom's last hours. The sadness lurking in her brown eyes when she'd asked pained him. But just as quick, her expression changed to one of eagerness at the prospect someone, even a stranger, could take her assertions seriously.

Except he'd been so preoccupied with checking her out. Her slender shoulders swallowed by the rough barn coat left open to reveal the soft curve of her breasts beneath her black turtleneck and tiny waist. He'd hesitated. Then that look about her eyes changed to one of embarrassment, and he'd wanted to kick himself for his stupidity.

"The flashlight," she said. "I need to find the light."

Shit.
He was doing it again, totally lost in her big brown eyes. "Oh. Right." Rafe reached behind into his jean pocket and grabbed the flashlight he had taken from his truck. Handing it of to her, she lit up the loft and disappeared over the ladder. He followed, lifting his leg over the edge, and eased himself up to a standing position.

She pulled a long string hanging down from the rafters. A single lightbulb popped on. She turned off the flashlight and frowned at him. "Rafe. I want to apologize for my behavior this morning, and the time before that."

"Before?"

"The sale barn."

"When you almost got knocked on your ass." I wasn't—

He held up a hand. "I know, you had it all under control."

Her mouth snapped shut, and she turned away and walked toward the back wall. "When I found Tom, I was outside below the pulley system. I came up here, hoping to lower him down." Her shoulders dipped. "But he was too heavy for me."

She remained quiet for a moment, her eyes hardened. "Tom is, was, all farm boy, Rafe. This wasn't an accident."

Rafe examined the thick braided rope tied of securely by a winch against the wall. He moved toward the loft doors and opened them. They were at least three stories up. "How'd you find him?"

"There was rope everywhere wrapped around his body. Part of it was around his neck. He strangled to death."

Rafe glanced back and frowned.

"Tom knew his way around a barn." She crossed her arms, her brows knitting together.

Rafe shut the hayloft doors. "I believe you knew your husband."

Bren slumped up against the wall. "Then you believe me."

"I'd say there are questions that need to be answered."

Bren slid down onto a hay bale and pressed her head back against the wall. Her eyes closed, and her slender nose flared as she took a deep breath. "That's all I really wanted. Someone to take me seriously."

Rafe sat down on the floor next to her, his back against the barn wall, and patted her leg. "I'm not a cop. I'm a cowboy. I ride. I rope. And I'll take up a fight for an underdog in a minute. From where I'm sitting, you're the underdog, Bren. If you want, I'll help you sort this out. But I'm going to be a little tied up with moving in and looking into buying some cows."

Bren opened her eyes, looked at him, and laughed. "You really are from Texas."

He grinned. "Yes, ma'am. Born and bred."

"So why Maryland? Don't they have cows in Texas?"

"They do. The Langstons raise only beef cattle—Black Angus as far back as I can remember. Let's just say my daddy's not a fan of milking cows for a living."

Bren leaned forward and placed her elbows on her knees, her chin in her palms. "I understand. My sister Kate... she's not into horses. She didn't mind riding them, but she couldn't wait to leave the farm. She's a trial lawyer and lives on the eastern shore." Her eyes dimmed, and she frowned. "I miss her. A lot." Her gaze hardened. "But she married a control freak. One who monitors her every move. Last I heard, we—the farm and all its occupants—were off-limits."

Definitely a story there.
Rafe cocked his head. "What about your parents?"

"Just my dad, now. My mom died of cancer a few years ago."

"I'm sorry, Bren."

She shrugged. "I'm okay with her passing. When someone you love's in that kind of pain, it's mercy." She pulled at a piece of hay from the bale she sat on. "Not real happy with Tom's passing, though." She hung her head down and twirled the hay between her fingers.

He'd never found the kind of love Bren and Tom obviously had. Hell, he probably wouldn't know love if it bit him in the ass. Now, lust he was all too familiar with. And for all involved it would be best to remember, this one was off-limits. The problem was he had a thing for redheads. And Bren Ryan's hair shimmered against the light in the barn. Silky smooth and the damnedest color red he'd ever seen, almost a dark cherry, a flattering contrast to her alabaster skin and the natural flush of her cheeks. Even the dark, long crescent of her lashes seemed natural.

"So tell me about your boys."

Bren lifted her head. Her expression brightened. "Aiden. He's fifteen, every bit the teenager. He looks like Tom. It's been hard on him. He and his father meshed well together. He and I, not so much."

"And Finn?"

Bren touched the puzzle pin attached to her coat and smiled. "Finn's my baby. Sweet and a lovey. He's seven."

"It's hard for a boy, almost a man like Aiden, to deal with his feelings. I've been there. He's not a boy anymore, but there are times he wants to be, but that would be a sign of weakness. So he walks around with a chip on his shoulder."

"Tell me about it. Only thing is, Mom's the bad guy. It's my fault his dog died in the spring. It's my fault his father died in the winter."

"Did you kill his dog?" Rafe sent her a sideways glance.

"No!" Bren pushed him hard in the shoulder, rocking Rafe's body to the side. "Not on purpose." Her voice softened.

"But you had something to do with the dog's demise?" Rafe raised a brow.

"Okay." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "You might not be a cop, but you're damn good at interrogation. If you must know, he was in the truck with me when I got out to get the mail. I forgot to shut the door."

Rafe laughed. "So you really did kill his dog."